We've had one national celebration (31 August), and are heading towards the second (16 September). It's complicated, like everything in Malaysian politics. But I like the decorations.

We're also in the middle of the DiverseCity International Arts Festival, which included a performance entitled "Feet on Fire" at the Auditorium DBKL This very impressively combined kathak and flamenco, and the links between the two are fascinating, if complex.

I first saw kathak dancing in Singapore, and I instantly loved its syncopated rhythms, underlined by the fast jingly feet of the dancer. This time round, from the first notes of the dilruba, I was hooked all over again.

I've never seen live flamenco, but the commonalities are obvious -- the hand-movements, the foot percussion. In this performance, at least, kathak is the more courtly. The dancer smiled throughout her most energetic swirls and taps. Flamenco, on the other hand, seems intense, almost aggressive, and the facial expressions of the dancer reflected those qualities. It's also more sinuous, and more overtly sensuous.

And it's still Shakespeare 400, of course, and KLPAC continues to offer up enjoyable offerings. Shakespeare's Men was a collection of Shakespearean monologues, the vehicle for which was an evening at a gentlemen's club, with four chummy members alternately challenging and encouraging each other's declamations.

Well performed. Engaging. A reminder of the way Shakespeare swings apparently effortlessly from comedy to tragedy. The Shakespearean contemporary music (works by Purcell, Dowland, Holborn, etc, played by musicians who sat in dimly lit niches, looking for all the world like portraits on the club lounge wall) really enhanced the atmospherics (and offered my first experience of a viola da gamba).

Movies form a regular cultural staple of our KL life. And as a side-note, despite our relatively regular Sunday morning walk to Petaling Street, why have we never noticed the Capitol...? Perhaps we've been sensitized anew by our trip to the Cathay Gallery?



Anyway, we took in two movies this week. They couldn't have offered a bigger contrast.

The first was Pete's Dragon, which is, as Nigel points out, a New Zealand movie. The dragon comes courtesy of Weta Workshop; Karl Urban's in it; and the scenery is quintessential Kiwi.





Dragons, many would argue, represent ancient energy lines -- such as the so-called leylines that run through Avebury and Stonehenge. But Christianity started to distrust their wild power, and set out to systematically slander and rout them. This movie is a sweet little contribution to the "slandered dragon" story, but here the overt enemy is the acquisitiveness of (some) humans and their inability to leave alone what they don't understand.

His vast bulk and mysterious powers do not stop Elliott, Pete's dragon, from being protective, cute, and playful. He engages in a bit of fire-breathing only when sorely tested, and even then steps in to mitigate the harm he's about to cause. Fortunately, he survives to tell the tale, which is good, because ultimately -- as the (Robert Redford) granddad figure realized a long time ago, despite his tendency to slip back into "scary dragon" mode in his story-telling -- dragons enrich everyone's lives.





Our second movie was Timbuktu, a film by Mauritanian Abderrahmane Sissako about the arrival of a fanatical breed of jihadists in Mali. Beautifully filmed, and very sobering.

I had feared it would be a cheap shot at Islam -- look how barbaric it is -- but it was much more subtle than that. The extremists are indeed barbaric, and culturally deaf. But we also catch glimpses of the real people behind those masks, struggling to embody the joyless creed they preach. And the real Muslims come across loud and clear -- devoted, wise, courageous, praise-filled (jihadist: "these people are singing praises to God and his prophet -- should we arrest them?"). Passive resistance is everywhere: people who are afraid, but speak out firmly against nonsensical edicts; guys who play football with no ball; the woman who sings under the lash of punishment; the fetishist with the chicken, who is clearly too weird to touch...

And everywhere, too, there is translation. From one language to another, and sometimes to another again. From culture or way of life to another. How much is lost in translation? How much doesn't ever get translated? In this case, lots, we presume.

The movie's big tragedy (the death of the father and mother, the abandonment of the child) is actually not directly caused by religion at all. It's a fight over resources -- fishing versus herding -- such as takes place all over Africa. But we so dread the way it's going to be dealt with in this improvised and absurd system, that the relatively painless end comes almost as a relief -- if it weren't that it leaves a fugitive daughter, running, running, running. A very memorable movie. So far from the Mali of Amy Koita and Amadou Hampate Ba.

This week saw our first visit to KL's Alliance Francaise, situated on leafy Lorong Gurney . As you can have a little supper and a coffee at Chez Leoniel, and then watch an interesting francophone movie for free, there's a high chance we'll be back.





In terms of food, KL's usual plethora is on offer. Two to name:

-- Ichiban Boshi. Avocado and snow crab salad, with a very tasty dressing. And a little sakura sushi thing, all pink and pretty.

-- Hon Kee. Their raw fish porridge is best described by Time Out: "thinly-sliced raw ikan haruan in sesame oil, garnished with Chinese parsley, chopped spring onions and julienned ginger. Scoop the fish into the silky smooth porridge and swish it around to cook it on the spot". We accompanied this with herbal tea, and tried not to get too riled by the old guy at our table whose advice on being a better Christian segued effortlessly into a stream of warnings against scams and most forms of modernity.

Bless him. But I do not want to get like that.